


Wretches and Kings, We Come for You

by owljustsitinthecorner



Series: Dragon Age Shenanigans [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ADHD Character, M/M, Trans Male Character, Vent Piece, i don't actually know what else to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owljustsitinthecorner/pseuds/owljustsitinthecorner
Summary: There's a time, when the operation of the machine becomes so odiousMakes you so sick at heart, that you can't take partYou can't even passively take partAnd you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheelsUpon the levers, upon all the apparatusAnd you've got to make it stop





	Wretches and Kings, We Come for You

**Author's Note:**

> the title and summary is from Wretches and Kings by Linkin Park because the entire song fits with this bean's personality. and also because i love their music fite me.  
> this was mostly a vent piece dealing w/ my own feeling about being trans and dealing with names, and also dealing a bit with adhd and rsd
> 
> edit: minor grammar fixes AND i also now have a discord server to come talk to me BECAUSE i dont have tumblr/twitter for personal reasons.  
> https://discord.gg/93vkAEd here it is!!

The Keeper’s First of Clan Lavellan rarely heard his own name. He had chosen it when “female” changed into “male” when a “young lady” turned into a “man” and the name chosen for him was like ash in his mouth. But all the words and names around him were “Tevinter” and he wanted to cling to the “Dalish” birth. From half dreamed memories he knew only one other name and claimed it. But after running away and changing from “slave” to “refugee” and “refugee” to “flat-ear” and “flat-ear” to “dalish”, he learned that his name belonged to someone else, someone darker. And so he learned to answer to “First” and “Da’len” and “lethalin”. He learned that his name was _bad_ , and even though it wasn’t his fault, and he didn’t know better, he still felt the pain of being wrong.

The Herald of Andraste doesn’t hear his own name. He was chosen when “rebellion” became “war” became “chaos” when any “mage” was “dangerous” and any “Templar” was “lost”, but the title they forced on him is ash in his mouth. And everyone around him is “Andrastian” but he is “Dalish”. Patched together from half-remembered tales, they clung to the stories they found, and they told them with such pride. But now he has gone from “spy” to “prisoner” from “prisoner” to “Herald of Andraste”. He learned that this title will be his alone to shoulder. He learns to answer to “Herald” or “Lord Herald” and maybe “Lavellan”.

Inquisitor Lavellan hasn’t heard his own name in so long he feels that any day now he will forget it. Everyone has a name for him and each one makes him sick. Varric calls him “Thunderclap” because of his favor for lightning in battle. Even as Vivienne’s “darling”s and “dear”s have become less biting they still burn. Bull’s fond “Boss” stings. Solas’s “Lethalin” aches. He figures that it makes sense, that eventually a name would have to be chosen for him, that’s how names work. He figures it’s better this way. The Inquisitor is a figure, and he needs to act like it. His name means nothing. Who he was, is, means nothing. The Inquisition required more than a “dalish child” turned “slave” turned “refugee” turned “flat ear” turned “dalish” turned “First” turned “Herald”. He had to be “Inquisitor”. His actions needed to be devoted to maintaining the “Inquisitor”. He was not allowed an identity outside of that.

He would spar with Cassandra, show his ability and keep up morale in showing others what he was capable of, and he would not discuss books with Cassandra anymore. Conversations with Varric would be about things relevant to the Inquisition, not outlandish book ideas to hear the dwarf laugh. Conversations with Solas would be educational, no stories from the fade that were only that, stories. No pranks with Sera, just what nobles were quiet about their dissent so that only the servants could hear. More time with Vivienne and her deportment lessons. Carving small wooden halla late at night would be traded for more serious conversations about the Grey Wardens. The late-night talks with Dorian, the odd fling with Bull, those would both end regardless of the pain. Cole would be avoided at all costs.

 _Life will be easier this way._ he tells himself, forcing food down to keep the Inquisitor alive, staring out the window and ignoring the letter in front of him. Ignoring how the setting sun paints Bull’s favorite color across the sky, how it’s the perfect backdrop for Varric’s romances Cassandra claims she doesn’t love. He ignores the pain in his chest after watching Dorian confidently go up the tavern steps with Bull after the weekly game of Wicked Grace. Varric tried to get the “Inquisitor” to play. The letter falls to the ground on a soft gust of wind, he stares at it blankly. More Venatori were spotted in the Exalted Plains Cullen had said in the war room after he told them he’d be fine after reading the crumpled parchment. The broken promise. Cole tried to talk to him during Wicked Grace, started in that _voice_ but was drawn aside by Vivienne who was still trying to teach him the intricacies of Orlesian table manners. The fire was running low like it is now in the Inquisitor’s quarters. Cullen was down to his underwear. Bull had Dorian tucked into his side, and he acted like it didn’t hurt that he lost both to each other. They’d be happier without him.

“You can’t know that” Cole had said looking the Inquisitor in the eye.

 _But it is true._ he thinks, staring at the purple-grey sky and wishing he could be staring into Dorian’s eyes and resting his head on Bull’s chest. But they both deserve better, don’t they? Better than the emotionless vessel of Andraste he needs to be.

“The Exalted Plains then?” he breathes into the empty room.

The letter stays on the floor. The blood splattered in the corner turned brown, the words shaky and that told him all he needed before the words themselves processed. The Keeper was the closest thing he had to a parent once with Clan Lavellan. She once told him that the shemlen would always make their assumptions, and to be taken seriously you had to go against them. Speak better than they expect, act more distinguished than they expect, _write_ better than they expect. She always had such clear penmanship, “Da’len” not so much. He never had quite the control over finer hand movements like her.

“Falon’Din enasal enaste, ir abelas” it comes out as a whisper and he tries not to chuckle at the phrase.

* * *

 

The Inquisitor is used to being just that. Whoever he was before simply didn't matter when the whole damn world needed saving. All that matters is the Inquisition. The Inquisitor already failed Clan Lavellan, but the inquisition cannot fail the world, cannot let Corypheus take power. The People will not suffer under magisters like he did. And he needs to be the one to do it, or else the People will be blamed eventually. And shouldn’t be easy? No emotion, no connections, only leadership. So why was it so hard? He’s never heard his own name, he’s never told anyone about how he chose it, why he kept it. He can’t because telling the story will make him break. He can’t let them see the Inquisitor break.

_Can’t let them know that I’m screaming inside, that the sensation of being nothing and that anyone could pass a hand right through me is near constant now. That Bull holds one piece of my heart, Dorian has another piece. And neither could know hard it is that I cant have either. Or the pain that they’ll never say my name. I cant tell anyone about how I feel so chained again, and how each diplomat is replaced by the image of that Magister that held the other end of my chain. Solas cant know that each time I hear him speak our language it hurts because I cant respond in kind. Even with my tattoos plain for all to see any other indication of my Dalish status would set the Inquisition back to far, and too much attention will put the People in so much danger. I’ve already lost my clan. I cant let all the elves in the cities down, I can't let the wandering clans down. I am Inquisitor Lavellan. Well spoken for an elf, surprisingly civilized for a knife-ear, so much self-control for a mage._

“… insults hidden in compliments, lies in truths-“ The rise of panic in the Inquisitor is visible as he tenses

“Cole. Stop.” The calm in his voice is eerie alongside the panic in his eyes.

“But I want to fix the hurt.”

“How long was he talking for?” It’s directed at Bull, who always rides on his right.

“Boss-“

“How. Long.”

“You went quiet and he just started.” Dorian offers hesitantly, leaning forward on his mount to look at the Inquisitor around Bull’s bulk.

“Boss-“ Bull sounds concerned, and he leaning forward like he wants to say something.

“Not. A. Word.” The Frostback elk he rides resists slightly as he directs it away from Bull.

“Boss-“ The tone is emotional, and that causes even more panic for the Inquisitor.

“No.” _I can’t do this, not now, anyone could be watching, Lelianna’s scouts could be watching, ready to report my slip-up, my failure._ “Not now. Not _ever”_

Cole’s soft sound of distress reaches his ears as he urges the elk to pull ahead, to be alone. The others will have heard. Vivienne was trying to teach the spirit boy about the intricacies of Orlesian silverware, Varric was next to her, giving commentary and keeping Cole from over stressing. Blackwall had placed himself between Cole and Sera and was making jokes with her to keep her distracted. Cassandra and Solas were right behind the compassionate spirit, arguing about him, again. They were grouped so close, they all heard.

_They know now. They know I’m only acting, that I’m not a leader, that I’m nothing more than a scared elf acting the part._

The arrival of the Inquisitor and his Inner Circle into the camp was tense. And it was very obviously not the usual “Dalish elf in the Exalted Plains” type of tense. Cole’s interference caused defensive anger to roll of the Inquisitor in waves, and no one dared to even make eye contact.

“Blackwall, Solas, Sera, be ready we are going to the ruins near the Dalish camp, the reports say there are a number of Venatori in that area.”

Solas looks over at the Inquisitor, who stands at the requisitions table, glaring at the papers scattered across it.

“Would it not be more reasonable to-“

“Dear Creators,-"

"-take Dorian-"

"-for once in your life, please-"

"-in search of Venatori?”

"-cease talking!”

“I feel as if is should resent that!” Comes the haughty reply from inside of Bull and Dorian’s tent.

“I have made my decision.” He states turning to Solas with a blank, yet vaguely pissed, expression before turning back to the requisitions.

“Anyone else realize that we don’t know his name?” Varric points out looking at the Inquisitor’s tense back, which tenses more after his statement.

“He likes it but isn’t allowed to. He has a role to play but doesn’t want to. His hurts are all tangled, I pull and he unravels with them.”

Sera mumbles out a “Why does he keep Creepy around anyway?” and they all jump when an inelegant and sarcastic snort comes from the requisitions table.

* * *

When the party returns to the camp later in the day, Blackwall is bloody and Sera looks ready to drop, the Inquisitor refuses to look at Solas and beelines to his tent shooting a stern “No one enters” over his shoulder. Each companion settles in for the night one by one. Dorian and Bull going together, glancing at the Inquisitor’s tent with concern. Dorian falls asleep quickly, still not quite used to the fast-paced and rough travels around the cold south. But The Iron Bull cant find rest as easily and listens to the camp as he thinks. The few times he had shared a bed with the closed off and jumpy elf he learned that the only time he allows himself to be vulnerable is when every potential witness is asleep. Or, assumed to be asleep. But instead of the soft muffled sob he usually heard at night, there was movement. A tent flap rustles, bootless footsteps, and a quiet murmur,

“I’m going to the Dalish camp, do not send for me for anything less than a rift blowing up the camp. And do not tell any of them where I am.” 

* * *

 

The next morning has bull and Dorian waking up to a rather loud argument between Cassandra and the scout that was on night watch. If an argument can be classified as “loud nevarran yelling” and “quiet repetition of the same phrase.”

“You WILL tell me where he has gone NOW” Bull sighs and starts pulling on his trousers as Dorian pulls all the blankets around himself.

“He made it clear that unless a rift blows up the camp, he was not to be disturbed,” Dorian mumbles something about bravery while Bull struggles with his braces.

“You will tell me where he is or I will-“ Bull steps out of the tent and stares at the scout who gains a sudden, determined gaze.

“If you will excuse any offense, Lady Cassandra, I am far more afraid of The Inquisitor than I am of you. The look he gave me last night will haunt me.” Stifled laughs scatter all over the camp before everyone controls themselves.

“Why You!”

“Hey! No need to worry, Seeker. He’s safe I promise.” Bull calls out.

“And how do you know this?” Cassandra demands as she whirls around to face him. And the scout’s gaze whips over looking like he has reason to fear for his life.

“I overheard him giving orders to the scout last night. He’s not in danger and that’s all you need to know.”

Varric stumbles out of his tent and decides to change the subject with a groggily stated “I’d still like to know Thunderclap’s name.” as he plops down in front of the dead fire, “Don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

“I don’t think he told anyone his name in the first place,” Bull states, ignoring the funny little painful pull in his chest for the moment, sitting down across from Varric.

“Solas knows it now!” Blackwall bellows from inside his tent “Wouldn’t leave him alone yesterday till he told ‘im, but they started yelling in elvish so I don’t know which word it was.”

Solas emerges from his tent and the three around the fire look at him expectantly causing him to stop short.

“Well?” Bull tries not to wince at how demanding his tone is, but the tiny elf and the groggy ‘vint now exiting the tent have wormed their way into his heart, but he didn’t even know the elf’s _name_.

“Falon’Din,” Solas states flatly, before turning on his heel and reentering his tent.

Dorian emits a confused little grunt, “Falon’Din? Isn’t that the elven god of… Kaffas, I know this, he told me.”

“Death” Bull states bluntly. Dalish yell’s a lot in battle, and he was naturally curious.

“Ah… Yes.” Dorian looks at Bull, facial expression flickering through a range of emotions

“Well… Shit.” Varric states emphatically. 

* * *

 

Falon’Din wakes up slowly, clinging to his dream of grey arms hugging him close and brown hands stroking his hair. Clinging a bit longer to the bitter-sweet fantasy. But the golden halla he’s using as a pillow stirs as Ithiren approaches the herd.

“You have a way with the halla, lethalin, they have not moved all night.” The elf smiles down at him genuinely.  
_So different from the shems, isn’t it?_

“Seems that even these majestic creatures are capable of pity,” Falon’Din answers, the smile on his face almost reaching his eyes.

“Or they recognize the one that is responsible for the safety of the Halan'ghilan” Ithiren offers.

“If it makes you feel better, lethalin” He counters sitting up fully as the halla all stand, and holds a hand up to Ithiren, “Mind giving a hand?”

“The Keeper wants to know if you were joining us this morning?” The other elf asks, pulling up Falon’Din. “Theris is cooking, but I'm sure we kind find something edible to eat.”

Falon’Din finds his chuckles quickly dissolving into outright laughter.

“It wasn’t _that_ funny.”

“It is when you find yourself missing such banter.” Falon lets out a sigh as his smile turns sad. “I guess I will be joining you, I will need my strength upon returning.”

“I don’t know, I said edible, not fortifying.”

* * *

 

During the meal he finds himself falling silent and simply watching. Ithiren teasing Theris, Keeper Hawen having a discussion with one of the clans Harens. Children sneaking the worse bits of food to the halla. He flexes his feet into the dirt, ignoring how sore they are. He hates the boots provided by the Inquisition and decided not to wear them coming here, but he also hadn’t wrapped them to give his arches the support they needed. Covertly he began the stretches Deshanna had taught him when he first came to the clan and wasn’t used to not wearing heavy leather boots. The ache in his feet and legs eases, but the ache in his chest grows at the memory.

“Da’len?” Keeper Hawen waves him over and the Haren smiles at him, sincere.  
_Yet again so unlike the shems and their forced politeness_

As Falon’Din stands up and walks over he rediscovers the ache in his feet and calves but smiles through it. The older mage gestures for him to sit next to the Haren, and he nods respectfully to both as he sits.

“This is Haren Maris, he is the master crafter of our clan, and we have agreed to provide you with parting gifts.”

“I couldn't-“

“Falon’Din,” Hawen says firmly, and he feels the twist in his chest at hearing his own name after so long. “You have done much for our clan, and out people. Allow us to send pieces of home back with you, to show our gratitude.”

“I-“ Looking down at his feet, willing the bounce in his leg to stop, he swallows and thinks. “It- it’s been so long since I’ve heard my own name.”

“You have worked yourself too hard, Falon’Din, that much is obvious. Let your people make the burden of the world lighter.” Haren Maris requests, placing a hand on Falon’Din’s shoulder, “You are not a statue to be paraded around, and _you_ should not treat _yourself_ as such.”

Falon’Din takes a few moments, and Ithiren comes over to place a cup of warm tea in his hands, then returns to harassing Theris. He turns the rough cup in his hands gently like he would if he was holding one of Josie’s fine china cups, feels the urge to sip gently,  
_Dainty like the shems._  
In a split second, he changes to a stronger grip and takes a long, savoring sip. Feels the warm spread out from his chest, feels it all the way down to his feet, and allows himself a soft sound of appreciation.

“Thank you.” He states after another long drink, looking the Keeper in the eye for the first time since showing up to ask if he could sleep among the clan’s halla the night before.

“Nissa, would you bring what I set aside earlier?” Maris calls out.

She comes over with a staff and some clothes, and the Keeper takes the staff as she hands the clothes to Falon’Din. Keeper’s Robes. Well made and sturdy, with proper footwraps. After a few moments staring at the clothes and willing his eyes not to water Keeper Hawen holds out the staff for him to take. The wrapped staff grip feels comforting in his hands, the dragon blade makes him think of Bull, but he pushes that away. Instead, he focuses on the top of the staff. Traditional Keeper’s staff head but the carved animals strapped to it are not quickly whittled wolves, but finely carved halla.

“Dahl’amythal?” He asks softly looking up at Hawen.

“You lead an army, but still find time for the People, you are a Keeper in your own right.” The elder mage answers, “Now, enough with the seriousness, Theris _should_ have some form of food.”

* * *

 

At first, the scouts attempted to stop the rather intimidating Dalish mage from approaching the camp. As he got closer, they recognized him, but it was rather hard, with the devious smirk on his face and the statement of “I’m quite sure Cassandra is already in a mood, let's not make that worse, hmmn?” Bull can see the moment when his confidence falters, the exact second he reconsiders whatever plan he made before his resolve hardens.

“Solas told us your name.” Bull offers as Falon’Din passes him to sets the new staff to lean on his tent.

“Oh?” Falon’Din sits down next to Varric at the fire, looking across at Bull with one eyebrow raised.

“It’s pretty badass.”

At that point, Falon’Din laughs, deep and full, right from his chest. The folds around his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks appear, slight red flush drawing out the freckles, and Bull grins back at him.

“Ah good! You’ve finally returned! Maybe you can convince Cassandra that you are a grown man who does not need constant supervision?” Dorian approaches with all his usual sass, even with a distinctly relieved expression on his face upon seeing Falon’Din. Who rises with a strange look on his face as Cassandra continues past Dorian looking irritated, or at least more irritated than usual.

“Inquisitor-“

“I was at the Dalish Camp, Cassandra. Being away from _my_ people for so long took its toll on me, and in light of the events at Wycome, even more so. Forgive me that indulgence, to enjoy time free from the overbearing weight of the Inquisition. Forgive me the indulgence of enjoying time among my people and my culture which I have been _isolated_ from ever since the explosion. Forgive me the indulgence of shedding the title ‘Lord Inquisitor, Herald of _Andraste_ ’ to spend some time as myself, as _Falon’Din Lavellan_.”

He’s begun to shake now, fear and anger and something Bull has never seen the elf allow himself to feel in public, pain. “Forgive me the indulgence of a few hours of _weaknes_ s. Forgive me if I find it hard to maintain an image of a person I never _was_ , nor _ever_ wanted to be. Forgive me if I cant be the _‘well spoken, surprisingly civilized, self-controlled, knife-ear mage’_. Forgive me if each backhanded compliment reminds me of my childhood spent carrying wine and hoping my minimal knowledge of Tevene would keep me alive.”

Dorian emits a soft gasp as Bull’s eyes go wide, while Falon’Din continues. “Forgive me if I break as each bit of what has made me who I am is stripped away so that all I am is _Inquisitor_ , the one who smiles to all the right rich shems, the one who has to pretend I don’t remember their names as the one who hunt my people for sport in the cities and the forests, the one who does as I'm told because the pretty, rich, pompous shemlen will tear us down with a few words, the one who shut off all my emotions so that it wouldn’t feel like I was being betrayed every Creators damned day, so that I wouldn’t feel the pain of losing those I’ve grown attached to because it always happens whether by death, the fact that I’m and annoyance wrapped in inconvenience, or just because I’m not who anyone _thought_ I was.”

Falon’Din stares at Cassandra, shaking like a tree in a massive storm, and the entire camp is frozen in place. Solas half-way bent to reach for a book on the ground, his head turned toward the other elf. Sera on the other side of Varric, both staring wide-eyed up at him, Varric’s gaze flickering over to Cassandra in a slightly panicked manner. Blackwall and Vivienne have stopped mid-spar to stare, Vivienne frozen amid a staff motion, Blackwall ducked behind his shield. Cole stands next to Bull trying to stay quiet and straining with it.

Falon’Din glances around the camp, still shaking even as his shoulders sag, and he sounds distressed and broken when he continues, “I’m just a person, I have limits, more than most. I’m no statue, Cassandra, you cant place me on a pedestal and expect me to maintain the image of the Inquisitor that everyone wants.”

He walks past her, trying his best to act like he doesn’t notice the shock that has frozen the camp, and returns to the requisitions table.

“Bull, Dorian, Varric, the Keeper told me that the Venatori are getting bolder, one of the Hunters was struck, we will scout around and try to chase them off. Or kill them. Yeah, killing them sounds better.”

Bull watches as small sparks dance across the mage’s skin, twining around his fingers and up is arms to dance across his shoulders and dissipate. He’d asked about the habit once. Apparently, it felt good for him, helped him calm down. He probably needed pretty bad right now, and even the brand-new staff leaning against his tent was sparking up. Bull looks to Dorian who just nods and moves behind the largest tent, out of sight of the rest of camp. Most of which have moved on, only the scouts move carefully like fire mines are all over, watching for Cassandra and the way she’s going to react.

“Hey, can I get a sec to talk before we head out?” Bulls asks walking to the table and into Falon’Din’s sight line.

“We need to keep it brief, I’m concerned that next time they’ll _take_ rather than injure.”

“No problem,” Bull nods, placing a hand on Falon’Din’s lower back “Just need a few things cleared up.” He guides him to the tent and behind it where Dorian is nervously nibbling the nail of his thumb.

“Oh.” Falon exhales, deflating and looking like he’ rather recite the whole speech to Cassandra all over again than ‘clear a few things up’.

“Falon’Din-“ Dorian starts and the elf in question drops as his legs give out, Bull just managing to catch him in time to soften the fall. Dorian kneels quickly bending slightly to look and Falon’Din’s downturned face as Bull figures out the best way to deal with his own legs. Falon’Din lets out a soft and utterly broken sob and grabs Dorian’s arm and the other mage twits it slightly to grab his in an underhanded grip. Suddenly the elf looks up and stares dead into Dorian's eyes.

“Say my name again, _please_ ” He whispers, just barely loud enough, voice cracking at the end.

“Falon’Din,” Dorian says without hesitation in a soft, loving voice with a vulnerable, soft look on his face as he does so.

Fresh tears well up in Falon’Din’s eyes, even as he smiles and starts laughing.

“I can’t have said it _that_ wrong, could I?” Dorian asks but the snark is washed away by the worry that’s overtaking both him and Bull.

Falon’Din responds by laughing harder and falling sideways into Bull, shaking with the onslaught of emotions and hysterics.

“Bull?” Falon’Din asks out of breath, not really needing to ask the full question.

“All you ever had to do was ask, Falon’din.”

A round of breathy chuckles erupt from the slumping elf and Dorian looks on with growing panic.

“Emma lath, ma vhenanen, ar lath ma.”

* * *

 

Falon’Din found himself thankful for Lilianna’s network when he returned to Skyhold. Josie had approached him first, asking which nobles were the ones killing elves for sport, and not using his title in the entire conversation that happened after, for which she repeatedly told him that he should have come to her sooner to ensure that he and his people were respected. After Cullen came to him with the names of multiple Dalish recruits who lost their clans to demons and rifts and that that struggled with the culture shock. At the end of that day, he returned to his quarters to find a bottle full of creamy liquid that he recognized immediately. The note simply said, “I watched the Hero of Ferelden drink a dwarf under the table with this stuff”. He smiled softly, Elgarris Mahariel had sent him a letter early on with a great deal about “I feel really fucking sorry for you” and “the shems and their politics fucking suck, hope you don’t ever have to deal with the dwarves either, fucking _weeks_ underground” and “good fucking luck hope they don’t make you their leader or some shit.” Falon’Din had sent a letter back not soon after being crowned Inquisitor with a whole lot about “you fucking jinxed it, thanks” and “if I get mistaken for a servant ONE MORE FUCKING TIME” and one paragraph about shemlen diplomats that started off with “In the name of Fen’Harel’s well-fucked arse-“

The weeks after that first day were still a struggle, old habits died hard. It took weeks till the first diplomat with a comment on the “well-behaved knife-ear” received an “at least we don’t commit genocide because we’re scared of a bunch of people having different opinions on religion.” And a month until the first noble talking about the “well-spoken elf” received an “Oh sure, I never would want to make the wrong comment to a duchess about her choice in wardrobe only to find out I’d been the one in out of date fashions! That must have been embarrassing for you!”

And before he lost the nerve he asked Sera to force him to have a good time occasionally. Which lead to where he is now, in the tavern having held his own against Josie fairly well till they both agreed to team up on poor Cullen. Her because she was Antivan, and him because Dorian mistakenly had told him and Bull about the minor crush he had on the hopelessly straight, hopelessly _oblivious_ commander. The Vint was glaring at him from his spot on Bull’s left leg, having been placed there by the Tal-Vashoth early in the game right as Falon’Din was placed on his right leg. The pot was an interesting one, all had agreed that putting actual money in these games just meant they had to face Josie’s pity later when she gave a little bit back. There were well-carved wood griffins that Falon’Din had done and decent enough carved wooden halla that Blackwall was getting better at. Sera had tossed in some visiting noble's lacy underwear that she and Falon’Din acquired as proof that they could sneak into anywhere and take anything without anyone catching them. Solas simply placed voucher’s for interesting stories from the fade, Falon’Din being the only one to actually take advantage of them. Cullen was always talked into giving up his clothes, and currently had all but his pant and underwear on the table. Varric had small stacks of short stories that Falon’Din helped to proofread. Cole still didn’t really know how to play the game, so he just sat and enjoyed the joy. Lilianna told secrets but never gave names. Cassandra used romance books but always got them back. Vivienne never played, but she, Dorian, and Falon’Din kept up a constant and rousing verbal sparring match the entire game. Dorian dealt in glasses of wine. Bull dealt in stories, and for his Kadans he dealt in whispered games he’s play later.

So Falon’Din sat on his lap, and laughed, and snarked, and got a bit tipsy.

“’ey thunderclap, know any good dalish swears? Book research, Daisy doesn’t really swear and Broody isn’t dalish.”

Falon’Din responds with an inelegant snort “Not sure I’m the one you should be asking, Varric.”

“Why?”

“My Keeper once told me I had a creative way of expressing my emotions.” He snorts again “It was her tactful way of saying ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone use the names of the creators in such vulgar ways’”

“Not fair, Thunderclap, Now I gotta know”

“Well the main ones I use are ‘Elgar’nan’s Rotted Dick’ ‘Mythal’s Saggy Tits’ ‘Dirthamen’s sweaty balls’ and ‘Fen’Harel’s well-fucked arse”

Falon’Din and Sera giggle together as Solas chokes on his drink, which leads to outright laughter all around the table.

_I might get used to this whole being happy thing._

**Author's Note:**

> personal writing flaw: excessive use of page breaks
> 
> Falon'Din kept his name even after joining the dalish because he as this small goal in the back of his head to influence the end of Slavery in Tevinter and kill all Aulti and Magisters that get in his way and felt that having the name of the god of death was fitting, and his vallaslin is the "complicated" Falon'Din vallaslin
> 
> also whoooo for the reappearance of Dalish Creamer im not letting that go, the elves need their own alcohol and it make sense to me so yeah
> 
> also Elgarris Mahariel is my warden, and im not letting him be dead i love him too much, and he started out as "earnest hero" and turned into a "fuck all of you, you are like children i will take care of this MYSELF"
> 
> last note this all happens before Wicked Eyes Wicked Hearts and Here Lies the Abyss because eventually i want to write Falon'Din being apologetically dalish while also committing verbal murder among the orlesian court.


End file.
